outside in the cold…

outside in the cold…

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(a stream of consciousness post)

I felt an uncomfortable sensation, like I was some where I did not belong, sure, the air is still and calm, and the sounds I hear are more like a glacier’s song, but here?? on a standard street in new jersey suburbia, I was awaiting the proverbial jumping cat to normalize the scene with banality, no luck there, sudden subtle whooshing water sounds, creaks and cracks, little pops, especially when the wind played cover for the under, fog, on a cold winter night? I can taste the moisture on my tongue somewhat, something is thawing, something is coming, that slight frozen fog suspended in air… or my eyes, I am not sure if I am in the dream state between or this is some parallel I have stepped into between worlds, I look to my neighbor’s house, all the lights are out, except those landscape domes buried in half a foot of snow, a semi circle, almost like a buried ufo, or proof of roswell is buried there, prints, prints across the white ‘scape, evidence, a trace, things have been skulking about but the melt makes a succinct inspection impossible, a cat, a dog, a fox, who knows, a person lost in the storm, probably not on that score, but these are written stories on the temporary ice canvas laid out, soon to become a book and flow into a stream, into the ocean, and off into the vast consciousness of the world continued and forgotten, all twined together like our daily lives, just these frozen at this one time, inextricably linked by binds of time and circumstance, and I can not decipher them before this alexandria burns into the ground, such is the way of the world, but I do not have to like it, and again, I hear more strange sounds, the closer I walk towards the more silence raises up to block my ears, the wind, a loki, shakes the tree above me raining down perfect droplet bombs of sub chill local tree rain, not from a cloud, at least not now, they hit me to distract from the creeping doom I imagine is out there… or I know is out there, but not tonight, not here, I return to the warmth of my hearth and home, to the domain of my screen, and these words, a survivor as long as fate may grant me, able to write my words at night so faintly, I hope my echo can carry in this chasm and catch the wind on the other side.

notes… as usual, all thoughts and comments are appreciated. good, bad, indifferent, did you read this? I wonder. did you experience?

window musings (part 2)…

window musings (part 2)…

“for if this is all I have
’tis more than some will ever know”

a window into the world
defined by frames
defined by shape
much like our own

words try to clarify a picture
quantify a fraction
symbols drawn together
and agreed upon among others
language –
like an ancient tree
the high branches so far removed from root
reaching up
as if to escape
or grasp the stars – themselves
for we know to well
not bound to this earth
for we know not long – enough
as the spirit thrives to live on

a reflection on the perfection of eleven… (stream of)

a reflection on the perfection of eleven… (stream of)

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outside the norm, or the deca-box, a beginning step over such, just higher than the range of given usual merit, a singular number, a backwards forwards road, twins, towers bold by bold, the power of one number can equal two, so unassuming in elegance, not the first or last of the calendar, nor a remarkable time of any days to remember, outside of america, that is, the essence of being outside, the one, or twin ones, in the major arcana ruled by the sun, a lion’s pride, an ego’s ride, the enchantress begs the gifts, and quells the lion’s maw with her own paw, allowing for the spring of heaven to emerge and flow forth, an elven spring, even a broken clock chimes the gateway twice a day – so what call’s us to notice, and delve into eleven and the eleven realms… who knows?

my photo… my view from my desk… on a good day

file this under things you write as they hit you, sitting in my office (photo) peering through the blinds, the soft parade of bright red underbellies like child drawn crayon whales, of clouds passing just over the house across the street, providing a stark contrast to the black-barren limbs of a tree, to the left of me, from here I can not see the asphalt, or debris strewn about on the street, not even the empty bus stop or garbage drop, no my mind is free for a moment to flee to meander within the clouds slowly so slowly sliding south, darker now, darker still, the red has faded to a purple gray, in this space, I could dream to be as free from the every day, one day, floating in the resonance of silence, or so I imagine this to be.

Notes… I am playing with numbers here, look up 11, I am not going to link to everything this time out that I was riffing on, just go to your fave search engine and search “meaning of 11” you might be surprised, or not, or maybe learn a thing or 12….

the banquet… {{B}}

the banquet… {{B}}

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how subtly we move down the long table, a feast with our family, different times of the year feel the same in here, time is somewhere peering in with jealous eyes. knowing at some point we will venture outside again, once small children (so I recall) are now here at the main table as adults grown up, their kids at the small one or running around, the parade of cousins, aunts, uncles and those married in moves on, the table has swelled all these years, I always knew, but never saw the subtraction coming as I do now, this soon, expected at some point, sure, but never on my side, in my direct row of chairs, a reckoning, for this is the way life is, I suppose we all hold onto untouchable belief, even in the sheer face of the inevitability, the reality, maybe we are fools but I would rather side on the side of belief against all and embrace that fool of myself, for what else can we do, pass the potatoes down and share a drink or two, a sliding moment of smiles, a flash of stories brought out like seasonal accouterments, as the actuality of the tales seem, and are, further off in the distance, for perhaps this is the time of my reckoning, at least as I slide chairs, as the elders inevitably become phantoms, one by one, some by some, so, all the more – stop and enjoy the spectacle, the pageant, the miracle, the banquet of life while the fruit is ripe, the buffet is vast and the glasses full, a moment to take in, as I approach the land of reckoning, not for myself, just yet, but I see, and feel, the coming of the sunset for the generation I am replacing in line next as I move toward the end of the table, may I carry such yoke with dignity and humanity – and love.

yes, the winter *”*

yes, the winter *”*

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from minute to minute, I suppose, I can not track my mind to the finish line, I do enjoy the comfort of snuggling burying into bed, fetal form, to gather warmth, or throw on that old cape may sweatshirt, the elastics at the sleeves have seen better days flapping loose like old flagpole lines @ the shore, but of course this sweatshirt comes equipped with a joey pouch for my hands, I walk out to take out the trash to the assigned bins, ‘hello, mr. winter
for I feel his breath on any and all exposed flesh, after last night’s raging gale, there is really little doubt, perhaps a spring like day might mount here or there, but not for long, the trees are close to bare, the town has come and picked up all the leaves left out, the wind meets little resistance now, across this land, I pause, the late afternoon sun now matches what colors there are left around, a snapshot, it will seem like hours and all will be gone, barren, the steady march into soft sleep, hunker down, the days grow short as the sun is just that more out of reach, other sources of warmth become the key, hunker down, soon, the white age of morning captures the dew, clothing and rituals will change, a trade for hot soup from lemonade, the shore becomes still, silent, empty, how things seem so much more empty when the crowds are gone, I wonder what the gulls think, they vote with their feet and beaks, they have moved into the suburbs and the towns, I wonder if those strip mall birds think lowly of their beachbound herds, trading a parking lot for the roar of the sea, I suppose survival is the more preferred aesthetic, but what do I know of birds, only what I observe, tonight in tongues comes a frost, a blanket, an incantation, a charm of making, that white beard that conceals the color green until what is left of the sun warms just enough, you can never plug all the holes of inevitable, surely, all comes falling down if you try to stem the tide by self as a boy, better to gradually be seduced than to outright drown, I dream of the beach in winter, so here my dream walks.

thoughts… from the porch. ” ” ” “

thoughts… from the porch. ” ” ” “

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the howling winds
yes, the cliché, like a freight train, but I must say, whoever coined that phrase, was quite correct, I saw the line coming in on radar, somewhere over Dingman’s Ferry just an hour ago, now, as predicted quite sitting, over my homestead, I sat out for a bit, enjoying the sheer raw power wind, found a spot not quite so wet to take it all in, seeing my newly planted bamboo bent and flailing about surely gave me pause, but things and trees have to learn after-all, I did however batten down whatever hatches I could, the reports of 60 miles per hour received and understood – and felt, what few leaves survived the autumn culling will surely not survive the night, and thirties temp in the forecast later certainly have snuffed out any oxygen left in hopeful lungs of summer, or spring, or whenever this began, the holidays and days that never were, the stalking virus seemingly an eraser of time (where did easter, 4th of july or halloween go?), things changed in a blink, kind of standardized but never slowed down, for children I suppose it might be worse, a stolen summer, a time in life never to be realized, how important things like 9th grade or 8th grade seemed, a prom missed, and there were, no second chances there, children have such strict avenues until they are out in the world embarking in their own canoes down that river… the roaring continues, but now rain has come to play, no place safe, well, no place dry to stay, save indoors, so I retreat, still, I open my window just enough, to invite a piece of the tempest thus, the TV is out, all the better, I have power, tough life I have no doubt, I can only imagine the spectacle such a whip coming through caused in a frontier house of old, wind finding every little crevice and racing through infiltrating, gas lit lamps flickering, threatening to go out and bring the dark veil, huddled in a patchwork waiting for the wind to die down, I romanticize this scene, only because secretly I know my modern convenience provides me the protection to watch the beast thrash about like I am watching some show, the sound though, the sound, my eyes deceive me as I watch a car drive down the street with no sound, I am sure the sound is in there, somewhere, in the blender, but damn if I can make it out, all there is, is nature’s voice, a roar, a throaty steady bellow racing through the leaves fallen at varying pace, stalks touching toes, why does this enthrall me so? maybe I am jealous, I can not conjure such magnificence, I only get to be a witness, but such things are better than not being here at all.